UC-NRLF 


MM 


POEMS 


BY 


THOMAS    BUCHANAN    READ 


BOSTON: 
WILLIAM  D.  TICKNOR   &   COMPANY. 

,  MDCCCXLVII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846,  by 

T.  B.  READ, 
in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts 


BOSTON: 

PRINTED  BY  THURSTON,  TORRY  AND  CO. 

31  Devonshire  Street. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

CHRISTINE              ...'..  1 

THE  BRIDE  OF  DATTENBURG 17 

THE  WINNOWER               .'....  28 

THE  CITY  OF  THE  HEART          ....  31 

SOME  THINGS  LOVE  ME              .....  35 

OLIVIA 33 

INEZ               ......  42 

"  LADY  WITH  THE  DUSKY  TRESSES  "       ....  46 

TO  THE  MASTER  BARDS              ....  48 

A  SHADOW  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .49 

A  LEAF  FROM  THE  PAST 51 

WHY  NOT  WE        ......  54 

ARISE 56 

THE  MAID  OF  THE  MORNING 58 

THE  WINDY  NIGHT 62 

"  MOURN  NOT,  SAD  POET  " 65 

THE  WATER 66 


IV  CONTENTS. 

A  MORNING,  BUT  NO  SUN 

TO  WORDSWORTH 

THE  SUMMER  SHOWER 

LABOR  ..... 

SUNLIGHT  ON  THE  THRESHOLD 

THE  RAINY  DAY  .  .  . 

THE  SWISS  STREET  SINGER 

THE  DEPARTURE  .  . 

THE  TWINS  .... 

EVENING       ..... 

AUTUMN'S  SIGHING 

THE  LAND  OF  OBLIVION 

INDIAN  SUMMER          .        .        . 

THE  DISTANT  MART    . 

THE  SCULPTOR'S  LAST  HOUR 

A  DIRGE  FOR  A  DEAD  BIRD     . 

BELLS 

COME  THOU,  MY  BRIDE 

A  HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT 

WINTER  .... 

THE    BARDS 


POEMS. 


CHRISTINE. 

Supposed  to   be  related  by  a  young  sculptor  on  the  hill-side, 
between  Florence  and  Fesold. 


COME  my  friend,  and  in  the  silence  and  the  shadow 

wrapt  apart, 
I  will  loose  the  golden  claspings  of  this  sacred  tome — the 

heart. 

By  the  bole  of  yonder  cypress,  under  branches  spread 

like  eaves, 
We  will  sit  where  wavering  sunshine  weaves  a  romance 

in  the  leaves. 

There  by  gentle  airs  of  story  shall  our  dreaming  minds 
be  swayed, 


2  CHRISTINE. 

And  our  spirits  hang  vibrating  like  the  sunshine  with 
the  shade. 

v 
Thou  shalt  sit,  and  leaning  o'er  me,  calmly  look  into  my 

heart, 
Look  as  Fesole  above  us  looketh  on  Val  d'Arno's  mart. 

Shalt  behold  how  Love's  fair  river  down  the  golden  city 

goes, 
As  the  silent  silver  Arno  through  the  streets  of  Florence 

flows. 

I  was  standing  o'er  the  marble,  in  the  twilight  falling 

gray, 
All  my  hopes  and  all  my  courage  wasting  from  me  like 

the  day  : 

There  I  leaned  across  the  statue,  heaving  many  a  sigh 

and  groan, 
For  I  deemed  the  world  as  heartless,  aye,  as  heartless 

as  the  stone ! 

Nay,  I  well  nigh  thought  the  marble  was  a  portion  of 
my  pain, 


CHRISTINE.  3 

For  it  seemed  a  frozen  sorrow  just  without  my  burning 
brain  ! 

» 

Then  a  cold  and  death-like  stupor  slowly  crept  along  my 
frame, 

While  my  life  seemed  passing  outward,  like  a  pale  re 
luctant  flame. 

Then  my  weary  soul  went  from  me,  and  it  walked  the 

world  alone, 
O'er  a  wide  and  brazen  desert,  in  a  hot  and  brazen 

zone  ! 

There  it  walked  and  trailed  its  pinions,  slowly  trailed 

them  in  the  sands, 
With  its  hopeless  eyes  fixed  blindly,  with  its  hopeless 

folded  hands. 

And  there  came  no  morn, —  no  evening  with  its  gentle 

stars  and  moon, 
But  the  sun  amid  the  heavens  made  a  broad  unbroken 

noon- 


4  CHRISTINE. 

And  anon  far  reaching  westward,  with  its  weight  of 

burning  air, 
Lay  an  old  and  desolate  ocean  with  a  dead  and  glassy 

stare  ! 

There  my  spirit  wandered  gazing,  for  the  goal  no  time 

might  reach, 
With  its  weary  feet  unsandaled  on  the  hard  and  heated 

beach  ! 

This  it  is  to  feel  uncared  for,  like  a  useless  wayside 

stone, 
This  it  is  to  walk  in  spirit  through  the  desolate  world 

alone  ! 

Still  I  leaned  across  the  marble,  and  a  hand  v,  as  on  my 

arm, 
And  my  soul  came  back  unto  me  as  't  were  summoned 

by  a  charm. 

While  a  voice  in  gentlest  whisper,  breathed  my  name 
into  my  ear, 


CHRISTINE.  5 

"  Ah,  Andrea,  why  this  silence,  why  this  shadow  and 
this  tear  ?  " 

Then  I  felt  that  I  had  wronged  her,  though  I  knew  not 

that  before  ; 
I  had  feared  that  she  would  scorn  me  if  I  told  the  love 

I  bore. 

I  had  seen  her,  spoken  to  her,  only  twice  or  thrice  per 
chance  ; 

And  her  mien  was  fine  and  stately  though  all  heaven 
was  in  her  glance, 

She  had  praised  my  humble  labors,  the  conception  and 

the  art,  — 
She  had  said  a  thing  of  beauty  nestled  ever  to  her  heart. 

And  I  thought  one  pleasant  morning  when  our  eyes  to 
gether  met, 

That  her  orbs  in  dewey  splendor  dropt  beneath  their 
fringe  of  jet. 

Though  her  form  and  air  were  noble,  yet  a  simple  dress 
she  wore, 


6  CHRISTINE. 

Like  yon  maiden  by  the  cypress  which  the  vines  are 
weeping  o'er. 

And  she  came  all  unattended,  —  her  protection  in  her 

mien ; 
And  with  somewhat  of  reluctance  bade  me  call  her  name 

Christine. 

Then  that  name  became  a  music,  and  my  dreams  went 

to  the  time, 
And  my  brain  all  day  made  verses,  and  her  beauty  filled 

the  rhyme. 

Then  I  knew  not  that  she  loved  me,  but  I  felt  it  now  the 
more  ; 

For  her  hand  was  laid  upon  me,  and  her  eyes  were  brim 
ming  o'er. 

Down  the  deepest  tides  of  feeling  how  her  holy  presence 

slid, 
With  a  light  divine  as  Dian's  on  Endymion's  dreamy 

lid. 


CHRISTINE.  7 

Oh,  she  looked  into  my  spirit,  as  the  stars  look  in  the 

stream, 
Or  as  azure  eyes  of  angels  calm  the  trouble  of  a  dream. 

Trien  I  told  my  love  unto  her,  and  her  sighs  came  deep 

and  long  — 
So  yon  peasant  plays  the  measure  while  the  other  leads 

the  song. 

Then  with  tender  words  we  parted,  only  as  true  lovers 

can; 
I  for  that  deep  love  she  bore  me  was  a  braver,  better 

man. 

I  had  lived  unloved  of  any,  only  loving  Art  before  ; 
Now  I  thought  all  things  did  love,  and  I  loved  all  things 
the  more. 

I  had  lived  accursed  of  Fortune,  lived  in  penury  worse 

than  pain  ; 
But  when  all  the  heaven  was  blackest  down  it  burst  in 

golden  rain. 


8  CHRISTINE. 

I  was  summoned  to  the  palace,  to  the  chamber  of  the 

Duke, 
And  I  felt  those  hopes  within  me  which  no  darkness 

could  rebuke. 

Down  he  kindly  came  to  meet  me,  but  I  thought  the 

golden  throne, 
Upon  which  my  love  had  raised  me,  was  not  lower  than 

his  own. 

Then  he  grasped  my  hand  right  warmly,  and  I  gave  as 

warm  return, 
For  I  felt  a  noble  nature  in  my  very  fingers  burn ! 

And  I  would  not  bow  below  him  if  I  could  not  rise 

above, 
For  I  wore  within  my  bosom  all  the  majesty  of  Love  ! 

Then  said  he,  "  Your  fame  has  reached  me,  and  I  fain 

would  test  your  skill, 
Carve  me  something,  Signor,  follow  the  free  fancy  of 

your  will. 


CHRISTINE. 

Carve  me  something,  an  Apollo,  or  a  Dian  with  her 

hounds ; 
Or  Adonis,  dying,  watching  the  young  life  flow  from  his 

wounds ; — 

Or  the  dreamy-lidded  Psyche,  with  her  Cupid  on  her 

knee ; 
Or  the  flying  fretted  Daphne,  taking  refuge  in  the  tree. 

Nay,  I  would  not  dictate,  Signer,  I  would  trust  your  taste 

and  skill ; 
In  the  ancient  armored  chamber  you  may  carve  me 

what  you  will." 

Then  I  thanked  him  as  he  left  me  —  and  I  walked  the 

armored  hall  — 
Even  I,  so  late  neglected  walked  within  the  palace  wall ! 

There  were  many  suits  of  armor,  some  with  battered 

breasts  and  casques ; 
And  I  thought  the  ancestral  phantoms  smiled  upon  me 

from  their  masks. 


10  CHRISTINE. 

And  my  steps  were  all  elastic  with  an  energy  divine  ! 
Never  in  those  breasts  of  iron  beat  a  heart  so  proud  as 
mine  ! 

There  for  days  I  walked  the  chamber  with  a  spirit  all 

inflamed, 
And  I  thought  o'er  all  the  subjects  which  the  generous 

Duke  had  named  ; 

Thought  of  those,  and  thought  of  others,  slowly  thought 

them  o'er  and  o'er, 
Till  my  stormy  brain  went  throbbing  like  the  billows  on 

the  shore. 

In  despair  I  left  the  palace,  sought  my  humble  room 

again, 
There  my  gentle  Christine  met  me,  and  she  smiled  away 

my  pain. 

"  Courage  !  "  said  she,  and  my  courage  leapt  within  me 

with  a  shock  ! 
As  of  old  when  spake  the  prophet,  leapt  the  waters 

from  the  rock  ! 


CHRISTINE.  11 

Who  shall  say  that  love  is  idle,  or  a  weight  upon  the 

mind  ? 
Nay,  the  soul  which  dares  to  scorn  it,  hath  in  idle  dust 

reclined. 

I   went  back  and  in  the  chamber  piled  the  shapeless 

Adam-earth ; 
Piled  it  carelessly,  not  knowing  to  what  form  it  might 

give  birth. 

There  I  leaned  and  dreamed  above  it,  till  the  day  went 

down  the  west, 
And  the  darkness  came  unto  me  like  an  old  familiar 

guest. 

But  I  started,  for  a  rustle  swept  across  the  solemn 

gloom  ! 
And  with  light,  like  morn's  horizon,  gleamed  the  far 

end  of  the  room  ! 

Then  a  heavy  sea  of  curtain,  in  a  tempest  rolled  away  ! 
Blessed  Virgin  !  how  I  trembled  !  but  it  was  not  with 
dismay. 


12  CHRISTINE. 

And  my  eyes  grew  large  and  larger,  as  I  looked  with 

lips  apart ; 
All  my  senses  drank  in  beauty,  till  it  overflowed  my 

heart. 

There  it  stood  a  living  statue,  with  its  loosened  locks  of 

brown, 
In   an  attitude  angelic,  with    the    folded  hands  dropt 

down. 

But  I  could  not  see  the  features,  for  a  veil  was  hanging 

there, 
Yet  so  thin  that  o'er  the  forehead  I  could  trace  the  shade 

of  hair. 

Then  the  veil  became  a  trouble,  and  I  wished  that  it 

were  gone, 
And  I  spoke,  'twas  but  a  whisper,  "  let  thy  features  on 

me  dawn !  " 

Then  the  heavy  sea  of  drapery  stormed  again  across 
my  sight, 


CHRISTINE.  13 

And  it  left  me  wrapt  in  darkness,  and  it  left  me  wrapt 
in  night. 

But  for  days  where'er  I  turned  me,  still  that  blessed  form 
was  there, 

As  one  looketh  to  the  sunlight  then  beholds  it  every 
where. 

Then  for  days  and  days  I  labored  with  a  soul  in  courage 

mailed  ; 
And  I  wrought  the  nameless  statue  ;  but  alas,  the  face 

was  veiled ! 

I  had  tried  all  forms  of  feature  —  every  face  of  classic 

art, 
Still  the  veil  was  there  —  I  felt  it  in  my  brain  and  in  my 

heart ! 

Then  again  I  left  the  palace,  and  again  I  met  Christine, 
And  she  trembled  as  I  told  her  of  the  vision  I  had  seen. 

And  she  sighed  "  Ah,  dear  Andrea,"  while  she  clung 
unto  my  breast, 


14  CHRISTINE. 

"  What  if  this  should  prove  a  phantom,  something  fear 
ful,  all  unblest  ? 

Something  which  shall  pass  between  us ! "  and  she 
clasped  me  with  her  arm  : 

"  Nay,"  I  answered,  "  love,  I  '11  test  it  with  a  most  an 
gelic  charm  ! 

Let  me  gaze  upon  thy  features,  love,  and  fear  not  for 

the  rest, 
These  shall  exorcise  the  spirit  if  it  be  a  thing  unblest !  " 

Then  I  hurried  to  the  statue,  where  so  often  I  had  failed, 
And  I  made  the  face  of  Christine,  and  it  stood  no  longer 
veiled ! 

With  a  flush  upon  my  forehead,  then  I  called  the  Duke 

—  he  came, 
And  in  rustling  silks  beside  him  walked  his  tall  and 

stately  dame. 

And  they  looked  upon  the  statue,  then  on  me  with  stern 
surprise  ; 


CHRISTINE.  15 

Then  they  looked  upon  each  other  with  a  wonder  in 
their  eyes ! 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  spoke  out  the  Duchess  with  her  gaze 

fixed  on  the  Duke  ; 
"  What  is  this  ?  "  and  me  he  questioned  in  a  tone  of 

sharp  rebuke. 

Like  a  miserable  echo,  I  the  question  asked  again  — 
And  he  said,  "  it  is  our  daughter !  your  presumption  for 
your  pain ! " 

But  now  bursting  from  the  curtain  in  her  jeweled  dress 

complete, 
Swept  a  maiden  in  her  beauty,  and  she  dropt  before 

his  feet  — 

•* 

- 
And  she  cried,  "  my  father — mother,  cast  aside  that 

frowning  mien  ! 
And  forgive  my  own  Andrea,  and  forgive  your  child 

Christine  ! 


16  CHRISTINE. 

Oh  forgive  us !  for  believe  me,  all  the  fault  was  mine 

alone ! " 
And  they  granted  her  petition,  and  they  blest  us  as  their 

own  ! 


17 


THE  BRIDE  OF  DATTENBTJRG. 


DARK  fell  the  winter's  stormy  night 

On  Dattenburg's  rude  castled  height, 

Through  gloomy  halls  and  crumbling  door, 

The  wild  winds  swept  with  sullen  roar ; 

And  on  the  dusky  ruin  beat 

The  arrowy  showers  of  rain  and  sleet ; 

Till  every  broken  arch  and  post 

Gleamed  through  the  darkness  like  a  ghost ! 

But  out  athwart  the  midnight  air 

A  taper  shot  its  starry  glare.  — 

Perchance  some  bride  had  bade  it  burn 

To  safely  guide  her  lord's  return, 

Or  maid,  perchance,  had  placed  the  light 

A  beacon  for  her  wandering  knight. 


18  THE    BRIDE    OF    DATTENBURG. 

Or  was  it  but  a  spectral  ray 
To  lead  the  traveler  astray  ? 
But  who  at  that  dread  hour  and  late 
Stood  beating  at  the  ruined  gate, 
While,  at  his  side,  with  dripping  mane, 
A  steed  contended  with  the  rein; 
And  ran  along  the  castle  gray, 
The  echoes  of  the  chargers  neigh  ? 
The  stately  form  in  splendor  drest, 
From  armed  heel  to  plumed  crest, 
Spoke  an  illustrious  lord  of  Rhine 
Fresh  from  the  fields  of  Palestine  ; 
Who,  blinded  by  the  tempest's  wrath, 
Had  wandered  from  his  mountain  path, 
Until,  with  joy,  he  saw  afar 
The  radiance  of  that  friendly  star. 
And  he,  in  that  dread  hour  and  late, 
Stood  beating  at  the  ruined  gate. 

"  Ho  !  Warder  !  ho !  "  again  he  cried 
"  Ho  !  Warder  !  ho  !  "  the  walls  replied  ! 
"  What  ho  !  a  traveler  calls  for  aid  !  " 
Still  echo  only  answer  made. 


THE    BRIDE    OF    DATTENBURG.  19 

Then  murmured  he,  "  this  wall  unknown 
Is  but  some  ruin  old  and  lone, 
Deserted  by  its  lord  to  be 
A  place  for  ghostly  revelry  ! 
For  never  yet  a  lord  of  Rhine 
Refused  his  shelter  —  or  his  wine  ! 
Then  be  this  place  the  demon's  haunt, 
My  soul  can  bid  them  all  avaunt, 
Or  fearless  be  the  Phantom's  guest  — 
To  night  within  these  halls  I  rest ! " 

He  gave  his  steed  a  sheltered  stall, 

And  groped  his  way  along  the  wall ; 

Then  through  the  crumbling  portal  passed, 

Where  writhed  and  moaned  and  shrieked  the  blast. 

Fit  minstrelsy  in  such  an  hour 

To  welcome  knight  to  haunted  bower. 

Though  all  was  utter  darkness  there, 

He  passed  along  from  hall  to  stair, 

Till  gleaming  from  a  distant  room, 

A  ray  was  painted  on  the  gloom. 


20  THE    BRIDE    OF    DATTENBURG. 

He  strode  along  unto  the  flame, 

And  gained  the  door  from  whence  it  came  — 

His  foot  was  on  the  oaken  sill, 

A  moment  and  his  heart  was  still  ! 

At  thought  of  fear  his  blood  upsprung  ! 

The  door  on  creaking  hinges  swung,  — 

And  forth  he  stepped  within  the  light 

And  bowed,  as  well  became  a  knight. 

Before  him  stood  in  snowy  dress, 

A  maid  of  lustrous  loveliness. 

And  when  excuse  the  knight  essayed, 

Her  large  eyes  dropped  beneath  their  shade, 

As  night  birds  from  the  glowing  day, 

Drop  in  the  dusky  pines  away. 

And  thus  she  stood  before  the  guest, 

With  mien  that  suits  a  maiden  best. 

Then  spake  the  knight  with  humble  air  — 

"  Forgive  the  rudeness,  lady  fair  ; 

Before  thee  stands  a  lord  of  Rhine, 

Late  from  the  fields  of  Palestine. 

The  night  is  dark  —  the  blast  is  cold, 

And  baffled  on  the  midnight  wold, 


THE    BRIDE    OF    DATTENBTJRG.  21 

Through  various  paths  I  turned  astray  ;  — 
Yet,  surely,  have  not  lost  my  way  ; 
For  nought  were  all  the  storms  to-night, 
Since  so  much  beauty  greets  my  sight !  " 

She  paid  his  words  with  dusky  wine, 
The  generous  beverage  of  the  Rhine,  — 
A  golden  goblet  handed  him, 
And  filled  it  to  the  jewelled  brim  ;  — 
On  her  so  steady  was  his  glance, 
And  she  so  steady  looked  askance, 
That  ere  they  thought  the  goblet  filled, 
A  portion  on  the  floor  was  spilled  ! 
And  ere  his  lips  had  touched  the  edge, 
He  bowed  to  her  with  courteous  pledge ; 
Then  long  and  deep  he  breathless  quaffed, 
And  passionately  praised  the  draught. 
Such  wine  upon  his  native  shore, 
Was  never  quaffed  by  knight  before ; 
For  well  he  knew  the  purple  wave, 
Took  virtue  from  the  hand  that  gave  ! 
As  oft  the  silver  flagon  rained 
Upon  the  cup,  as  oft  he  drained  ; 


22  THE    BRIDE    OF   DATTENBURG. 

At  every  draught  more  lovely  grew, 
The  silent  maiden  to  his  view ; 
Till  fired  with  love  beyond  command, 
He  proffered  her  his  heart  and  hand  ! 

As  from  her  clasp  the  flagon  fell, 
The  maiden  gazed  upon  him  well ! 
And  as  her  bosom  heaved  a  sigh, 
Somewhat  of  love  was  in  her  eye, 
And  on  her  lip  a  tender  smile  — 
Yet  never  word  she  spake  the  while ! 
But  now  she  stepped  aside  and  took 
A  gold  harp  from  its  dusky  nook  ; 
And  softly  as  the  fall  of  snow, 
Or  softly  as  the  night  flowers  blow  ; 
Or  as  the  wavering  rose  leaves  fall, 
From  Autumn's  fading  coronal, 
As  soft  the  fingers  of  the  maid 
Among  the  golden  harp-strings  played. 
So  sweet  the  gentle  cadence  swelled, 
The  knight  entranced  his  posture  held  ; 
And  as  his  soul  drank  eagerly 
Those  low,  sad  notes  of  melody, 


THE    BRIDE    OF    DATTENBURG.  23 

With  sweet,  unearthly  grief  imbued, 
He  sighed,  he  wept  and  bowed  subdued  ! 
And  as  she  swept  the  chords  along, 
Thus  swelled  the  melancholy  song.  — 

SONG. 

"  Ah,  woe  is  me  !    Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
}T  was  in  the  solemn  midnight  hour, 
Through  winter  winds  and  freezing  shower, 
A  knight  came  to  a  lady's  bower  ; 

Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
The  last  bud  on  the  blasted  tree 

Was  she, 

Ah  me  ! 

"  Ah,  woe  is  me  !    Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
He  claimed  her  hospitality, 
And  drank  the  purple  wine  so  free, 
And  pledged  to  her  right  courteously  ; 

Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
The  last  bud  on  the  blasted  tree 

Was  she, 

Ah  me  ! 


24  THE    BRIDE    OF    DATTENBURG. 

"  Ah,  woe  is  me  !    Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 

A  noble  baron  of  the  Rhine, 

He  asked  her  hand  when  flushed  with  wine, 

And  in  her  heart  she  said,  '  P  m  thine  ! ' 

Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
The  last  bud  on  the  blasted  tree 

Was  she, 

Ah  me !  " 

Now  as  the  cadence  softly  died, 
The  maiden  rose  and  stepped  aside, — 
Before  the  pictures  of  a  knight, 
And  dame  in  jewelled  "dress  bedight, 
Awhile  she  stood.  —  Then  from  the  wall 
Took  down  a  withered  coronal, 
And  placed  it  on  her  lover's  head  ; 
Then  solemnly  the  way  she  led 
Though  many  an  echoing  corridor, — 
And  now  they  walked  the  chapel  floor ! 
A  flood  of  light  around  them  hung 
From  many  a  waxen  taper  flung ; 
Green  branches  waved  around  the  wall. 
As  for  some  holy  festival ! 


THE    BRIDE    OF    DATTENBURG.  25 

Now  shadow-like  a  stately  pair 
Walked  up  the  aisle  with  solemn  air ! 
The  bridegroom  gazed  on  them  aghast, 
While  to  a  statued  tomb  they  passed  !  — 
There  were  the  pictured  knight  and  dame 
Which  late  he  saw  !  —  the  very  same  ! 
And  grimly  stretched  along  the  tomb, 
There  lay  a  mitred  form  of  gloom  ;  — 
The  old  knight  waved  his  shadowy  hand  : 
Obedient  to  the  stern  command, 
Sad  strains  of  music  swelled  around, 
Like  organ  tones  from  under  ground  ! 
The  statue  with  his  mitred  crest 
Rose  slowly  from  his  place  of  rest, 
And  with  a  loud,  unearthly  tread, 
The  way  unto  the  altar  led  ! 
While,  statue-like,  the  aged  pair 
Gazed  on  the  youth  with  stony  stare, 
Out  spake  the  prelate  with  a  tone, 
That  seemed  the  distant  thunder's  moan, 
And  on  the  young  knight's  soul  it  fell 
As  cold  as  icy  manacle  ! 


26  THE    BRIDE    OF    DATTENBURG. 

"  Speak  !  Kurd  von  Stein  !  tak'st  thou  for  bride, 

The  maiden  standing  at  thy  side  ? 

Speak !  Kurd  von  Stein  !  "  The  trembling  knight 

No  word  could  answer  for  affright ! 

Again  he  heard  the  question  swell, 

Like  summons  from  a  smothered  cell  — 

And  once  again  with  fiercer  power, 

"  Speak  !  Kurd  von  Stein  !  —  "    The  convent  tower 

Now  told  abroad  the  morning  hour ! 

And  with  it  came  a  rush  of  wind, 

And  not  a  trace  was  left  behind 

Of  bishop,  maid,  or  aged  pair ! 

They  passed  like  leaves  on  autumn  air  ! 

The  young  knight  giddy  swooned  away  ; 

And  when  he  woke,  the  golden  day 

Was  streaming  o'er  him  where  he  lay  ! 

Down  from  the  altar  then  he  stepped, 
Where  he  the  troubled  hour  had  slept ; 
And  passing  through  the  ruined  aisle,  — 
The  wild  birds  fluttered  out  the  while,  — 
He  saw  the  mitred  statue  grim, 
Lay  stretched  with  rusty  form  and  limb, 


THE    BRIDE    OF    DATTENBTTRG.  27 

So  overgrown  with  ivies  green, 
The  stately  form  could  scarce  be  seen. 
But  now  he  heard  his  charger's  neigh  — 
Now,  thoughtfully,  he  rode  away  ! 


28 


THE  WINNOWER. 


SINGS  a  maiden  by  a  river, 

Sings  and  sighs  alternately  ; 
In  my  heart  shall  flow  forever, 

Like  a  stream,  her  melody. 
'Midst  her  hair  of  flaxen  hue 

Tend'rest  buds  and  blossoms  teem  ; 
And  her  beauty  glows  as  through 

Hazy  splendors  of  a  dream. 
Like  her  melody's  rich  bars  — 
Or  a  golden  flood  of  stars,  — 
Rustling  like  a  summer  rain, 
Through  her  fingers  falls  the  grain, 
Swells  her  voice  in  such  sweet  measure, 
I  must  join  for  very  pleasure  ; 


THE    WINNOWER.  29 

But  my  lay  shall  be  of  her, 
Bright  and  lovely  Winnower  ! 

When  her  song  to  laughter  merges, 

Melts  the  music  of  her  tongue, 
Like  the  voice  of  mimic  surges 

Over  golden  pebbles  flung. 
From  her  hands  the  grainless  chaff 

On  the  light  wind  dances  free  ; 
But  a  sigh  will  check  her  laugh, — 

"  So  much  worthlessness,  ah  me, 
Mingles  with  the  good  !  "  saith  she  ; 
Yet  the  grain  is  fair  to  see. 
Laughter,  like  some  sweet  surprise, 
Lights  again  her  dewy  eyes, 
And  her  song  hath  drowned  her  sighs  ; 
Therefore  will  I  sing  of  her, 
Bright  and  lovely  Winnower ! 

Down  beside  as  fair  a  river 

Sings  the  maiden  Poesy, 
In  my  heart  shall  flow  forever 

Her  undying  melody. 


30  THE    WINNOWER. 

Through  her  rosy  fingers  fall 

Golden  grain  of  richest  thought ; 
But  the  grainless  chaff  is  all 

By  the  scattering  breezes  caught :  — 
"  So  much  worthlessness,  ah  me, 

Mingles  with  the  good  !  "  saith  she. 
Yet  the  grain  is  bright  to  see, 
Therefore  laughs  she  merrily  ! 
Laughs  and  sings  in  such  sweet  measure, 
I  must  join  for  very  pleasure  — 
While  my  heart  keeps  time  with  her, 
I  will  praise  the  Winnower! 


31 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  HEART. 


THE  heart  is  a  city  teeming  with  life  — 
Through  all  its  gay  avenues,  rife 

With  gladness 
And  innocent  madness, 
Bright  beings  are  passing  along, 
Too  fleeting  and  fair  for  the  eye  to  behold, 

While  something  of  Paradise  sweetens  their  song, 
They  are  gliding  away  with  their  wild  gushing  ditty, 

Out  of  the  city, 

Out  of  the  beautiful  gates  of  gold  ! 
Through  gates  that  are  ringing 
While  to  and  fro  swinging, 
Swinging  and  ringing  ceaselessly, 
Like  delicate  hands  that  are  clapped  in  glee, 
Beautiful  hands  of  infancy  ! 


32  THE    CITY    OF    THE    HEART. 

The  heart  is  a  city  —  and  gay  are  the  feet 
That  dance  along 
To  the  joyous  beat 

Of  the  timbrel  that  giveth  a  pulse  to  song. 
Bright  creatures  enwreathed 

With  flowers  and  mirth, 
Fair  maidens  bequeathed 

With  the  glory  of  earth, 

Sweep  through  the  long  street,  and  singing  await, 
A  moment  await  at  the  wonderful  gate  ; 
Every  second  of  time  there  comes  to  depart 
Some  form  that  no  more  shall  revisit  the  heart ! 
They  are  gliding  away  and  breathing  farewell  — 
How  swiftly  they  pass 
Through  the  gates  of  brass, 
Through  gates  that  are  ringing 
While  to  and  fro  swinging, 

And  making  deep  sounds,  like  the  half-stifled  swell 
Of  the  far  away  ring  of  a  gay  marriage  bell ! 

The  heart  is  a  city  with  splendor  bedight, 
Where  tread  martial  hosts  arrayed  for  the  fight, 


THE    CITY    OF    THE    HEART.  33 

Under  banner-hung  arches, 

To  war-kindling  marches, 

To  the  fife  and  the  rattle 
Of  drums,  with  gay  colors  unfurled, 

On,  eager  for  battle, 

To  smite  their  bright  spears  on  the  spears  of  the  world  ! 
Through  noontime,  through  midnight,  list,  and  thou  1't 

hear 
The  gates  swing  in  front,  then  clang  in  the  rear. 

Like  a  bright  river  flowing, 

The  war  host  is  going, 

And,  like  that  river, 

Returning,  ah  never ! 
Through  daylight  and  darkness  low  thunder  is  heard 

From  the  city  that  flings 

Her  iron  wrought  wings, 
Flapping  the  air  like  the  wings  of  a  bird  ! 

The  heart  is  a  city —  how  sadly  and  slow, 

To  and  fro, 
Covered  with  rust,  the  solemn  gates  go ! 

With  meek  folded  palms, 

3 


34  THE    CITY    OF    THE    HEART. 

With  heads  bending  lowly, 

Strange  beings  pass  slowly, 
Through  the  dull  avenues  chanting  their  psalms  ; 
Sighing  and  mourning  they  follow  the  dead 
Out  of  the  gates  that  fall  heavy  as  lead  — 
Passing,  how  sadly,  with  echoless  tread, 

The  last  one  is  fled ! 

No  more  to  be  opened,  the  gates  softly  close, 
And  shut  in  a  stranger  who  loves  the  repose  ; 
With  no  sigh  for  the  past,  with  countenance  of  pity 
He  spreads  his  black  flag  o'er  the  desolate  city ! 


35 


SOME  THINGS   LOVE  ME. 


ALL  within  and  all  without  me 

Feel  a  melancholy  thrill ; 
And  the  darkness  hangs  about  me, 

Oh,  how  still ! 
To  my  feet,  the  river  glideth 

Through  the  shadow,  sullen,  dark  ; 
On  the  stream  the  white  moon  rideth, 

Like  a  barque  — 
And  the  linden  leans  above  me, 

Till  I  think  some  things  there  be 
In  this  dreary  world  that  love  me, 

Even  me  ! 

Gentle  flowers  are  springing  near  me, 
Shedding  sweetest  breath  around  ; 


36  SOME    THINGS    LOVE    ME. 

Countless  voices  rise,  to  cheer  me, 

From  the  ground  ; 
And  the  lone  bird  comes  —  I  hear  it 

In  the  tall  and  windy  pine 
Pour  the  sadness  of  its  spirit 

Into  mine ; 
There  it  swings  and  sings  above  me, 

Till  I  think  some  things  there  be 
In  this  dreary  world  that  love  me, 

Even  me  ! 

Now  the  moon  hath  floated  to  me, 

On  the  stream  I  see  it  sway, 
Swinging,  boat-like,  as  'twould  woo  me 

Far  away  — 
And  the  stars  bend  from  the  azure, 

I  could  reach  them  where  I  lie, 
And  they  whisper  all  the  pleasure 

Of  the  sky. 
There  they  hang  and  smile  above  me, 

Till  I  think  some  things  there  be 
In  the  very  heavens  that  love  me, 

Even  me ! 


SOME    THINGS    LOVE    ME.  37 

Now  when  comes  the  tide  of  even, 

Like  a  solemn  river,  slow, 
Gentle  eyes  akin  to  heaven 

On  me  glow  — 
Loving  eyes  that  tell  their  story, 

Speaking  to  my  heart  of  hearts  ; 
But  I  sigh,  "  a  thing  of  glory 

Soon  departs ! " 
Yet  when  Mary  fades  above  me, 

I  must  think  that  there  will  be 
One  thing  more  in  heaven  to  love  me, 

Even  me  ! 


38 


OLIVIA. 


DOWN  where  tall  and  saintly  poplars 

Grow  along  a  grassy  lane, 
Stands  a  mansion,  old  and  lonely, 
Gray  with  mould,  and  open  only 
To  the  gusty  wind  and  rain. 

Round  the  porch  long  vines  are  trailing 

With  the  webs  that  fan  the  gust ; 
Overgrown  with  honey-suckles 
Is  the  door,  whose  brazen  knuckles 
Hang  engloved  in  dust  and  rust. 

And  a  sleepy  silver  river 

Through  the  silent  meadow  flows,- 


OLIVIA.  39 

Sweeping  toward  the  distant  city, 
And  it  seems  to  murmur  pity 

As  it  seems  to  dream  of  woes. 

Down  beneath  the  aged  willow, 

Down  beside  the  garden  gate, 
Sat  Olivia,  sighing,  weeping, 
For  her  lover,  lonely  keeping 

Weary  watch  and  watching  late. 

In  the  sunny  days  now  numbered 
With  the  sleeping,  dreamy  past, 

With  that  weeping  tree  above  her, 

Proudly  spake  she  to  her  lover 

Words  of  scorn,  to  him  the  last. 

Word  of  scorn,  and  spoken  proudly, 
Not  the  meanest  brook  o'er  well  — 

Word  of  scorn  — say,  who  may  bear  it  ? 

Not  the  glowing,  noble  spirit, 

Though  from  angel  lips  it  fell ! 


40  OLIVIA. 

With  a  heart  as  proud  as  ever, 

She  returned  his  cold  adieu  ;  — 
In  his  boat  she  saw  him  sitting, 
Watched  him  toward  the  city  flitting  — 
Swiftly  flitting  from  her  view. 

When  beneath  the  distant  bridges 
She  beheld  no  more  his  sail, 
Gazing  still  adown  the  river, 
Her  pale  lips  began  to  quiver, 
And  her  heart  began  to  fail. 

Years  went  by.  —  Beneath  that  willow 
Still  she  gazed  toward  the  town  ;  — 

Gazed  toward  the  gilded  steeple, 

Or  beheld  the  joyous  people 

In  their  boats  float  up  and  down. 

There  she  sat  till  reason  left  her, 
There  she  sat  in  her  despair, 
Sadly  singing,  sighing,  grieving, 


OLIVIA.  41 

Sighing  sadly,  singing,  weaving 
Willow  branches  in  her  hair. 

Down  beneath  the  crowded  bridges, 
When  the  day  was  in  the  wane, 

With  gay  songs  and  laughter  hearty, 

Sailed  a  brilliant  bridal  party, 
Jesting,  singing  all  amain. 

But  the  bridegroom  by  his  lady, 

Mutely  gazed  upon  the  tide, 
Till  he  saw  the  wave  was  laden 
With  the  white  form  of  a  maiden !  — 

Saw  her  tresses  floating  wide  ! 

Still  he  gazed,  until  her  features 

Gleamed  amid  the  waters  dim  ; 
But  ere  burst  his  cry  of  wonder 
She  sank  down  forever  under  ! 

Sank  unseen  by  all  but  him  ! 


42 


INEZ. 

DOWN  behind  the  hidden  village,  fringed  around  with 
hazel  brake, 

(Like  a  holy  hermit  dreaming,  half  asleep  and  half 
awake, 

One  who  loveth  the  sweet  quiet  for  the  happy  quiet's 
sake,) 

Dozing,  murmuring  in  its  visions,  lay  the  heaven-enam 
ored  lake. 

And  within  a  dell,  where  shadows  through  the  brightest 
days  abide, 

Like  the  silvery  swimming  gossamer  by  breezes  scat 
tered  wide, 

Fell  a  shining  skein  of  water  that  ran  down  the  lake 
let's  side, 

As  within  the  brain  by  beauty  lulled,  a  pleasant  thought 
may  glide. 


INEZ.  43 

When  the  sinking  sun  of  August,  growing  large  in  the 

decline, 
Shot  his  arrows  long  and  golden,  through  the  maple 

and  the  pine ; 
And  the  russet-thrush  fled  singing  from  the  alder  to 

the  vine, 
While  the  cat-bird  in  the  hazel  gave  its  melancholy 

whine  ; 

And  the  little  squirrel  chattered,  peering   round   the 

hickory  bole, 

And,  like  a  lonely  meteor,  gleamed  along  the  oriole  ;  — 
There  I  walked  beside  fair  Inez,  and  her  gentle  beauty 

stole 
Like  the  scene  athwart  my  senses,  like  the  sunshine 

through  my  soul. 

And  her  fairy  feet  that  pressed  the  leaves,  a  pleasant 
music  made, 

And  they  dimpled  the  sweet  beds  of  moss  with  blos 
soms  thick  inlaid  :  — 


44  INEZ. 

There  I  told  her  old  romances,  and  with  love's  sweet 
woe  we  played, 

Till  fair  Inez's  eyes,  like  evening,  held  the  dew  be 
neath  their  shade. 

There  I  wove  for  her  love  ballads,  such  as  lover  only 

weaves, 
Till  she  sighed  and  grieved,  as  only  mild  and  loving 

maiden  grieves  ; 
And  to  hide  her  tears  she  stooped  to  glean  the  violets 

from  the  leaves, 
As  of  old  sweet  Ruth  went  gleaning  'mid  the  oriental 

sheaves. 

Down  we  walked  beside  the  lakelet :  —  gazing   deep 

into  her  eye, 
There  I  told  her  all  my  passion  !    With  a  sudden  blush 

and  sigh, 
Turning  half  away  with  look  askant,  she  only  made 

reply, 
"  How  deep  within  the  water  glows  the  happy  evening 

sky  !  " 


INEZ.  45 

Then  I  asked  her  if  she  loved  me,  and  our  hands  met 

each  in  each, 
And  the  dainty,  sighing  ripples  seemed  to  listen  up  the 

reach ; 
While  thus  slowly  with  a  hazel  wand  she  wrote  along 

the  beach, 
"Love,  like  the  sky,   lies  deepest   ere   the   heart   is 

stirred  to  speech." 

Thus  I  gained  the  love  of  Inez  —  thus  I  won  her  gentle 
hand ; 

And  our  paths  now  lie  together,  as  our  foot-prints  on 
the  strand ; 

We  have  vowed  to  love  each  other  in  the  golden  morn 
ing  land, 

When  our  names  from  earth  have  vanished,,  like  the 
writing  from  the  sand  ! 


46 


LADY  WITH  THE  DUSKY  TRESSES.' 


LADY  with  the  dusky  tresses, 
Sunny  cheek  and  lustrous  eye, 

Brightly  standest  thou  before  me, 
With  thy  looks  so  pure  and  high  ; 

And  thou  fills't  my  soul  with  beauty, 
As  the  morning  fills  the  sky ;  — 

Therefore,  lady,  shine  forever, 

Like  the  morning  smiling  ever, 

With  a  glory  fading  never  ! 

Like  a  gladsome  gleam  of  sunshine, 
Thou  dost  glide  amid  thy  halls, 

Flushing  all  things  into  beauty 
Wheresoe'er  thy  glory  falls  ;  — 

More  than  for  the  golden  sunlight, 
Some  sad  spirit  for  thee  calls ! 


LADY  WITH  THE  GOLDEN  TRESSES.        47 

Therefore,  lady,  shine  forever, 
Like  the  sunlight  smiling  ever, 
With  a  glory  fading  never ! 

Not  the  stars  that  gild  the  azure, 

Speaking  ever  love  divine, 
Nor  the  upward  looking  flowers, 

That  like  stars  around  us  shine, 
Show  us  half  the  heaven  that  beameth 

From  those  gentle  eyes  of  thine. 
Therefore,  lady,  shine  forever, 
Like  the  sweet  stars  smiling  ever, 
With  a  glory  fading  never  ! 

Not  the  solemn  air  of  midnight, 

By  a  rustling  water  stirred, 
Nor  the  sweetest  song  of  angels 

In  a  golden  vision  heard, 
Fill  the  soul  with  half  the  music 

Of  thy  slightest  murmured  word  ! 
Therefore,  lady,  sing  forever, 
Like  the  angels  ceasing  never, 
Shedding  glory  round  thee  ever ! 


48 


TO    THE    MASTER    BARDS. 


YE  mighty  masters  of  the  song  sublime, 

Who,  phantom-like,  with  large  unwavering  eyes, 

Stalk  down  the  solemn  wilderness  of  Time, 

Reading  the  mysteries  of  the  future  skies  ; 

Oh,  scorn  not  earth  because  it  is  not  heaven  ; 

Nor  shake  the  dust  against  us  from  your  feet, 

Because  we  have  rejected  what  was  given  ! 

Still  let  your  tongues  the  wondrous  theme  repeat ! 

Though  ye  be  friendless  in  this  solitude, 

Quick  winged  thoughts,  from  many  an  unborn  year, 

God-sent,  shall  feed  ye  with  prophetic  food, 

Like  those  blest  birds  which  fed  the  ancient  Seer ! 

And  Inspiration,  like  a  wheeled  flame, 

Shall  bear  ye  upward  to  eternal  fame  ! 


49 


A  SHADOW. 


THE  river  rolls  with  might  and  main, 

Where  never  a  bird  is  blithe, 
Like  a  mower,  the  beautiful  tree  on  the  plain 
Sways,  swinging  its  shadowy  scythe. 
Like  the  river's  flow 
Through  the  autumn  plain, 
The  river  of  woe 
Sweeps  through  my  brain  ; 
And  beautiful  Love  sways  to  and  fro, 
Swinging  a  shadowy  scythe ! 

The  river  drowns  the  swooning  bank, 
And  the  plain  is  a  desolate  sea, 

And  flinging  its  arms  abroad,  leafless  and  lank, 
Leander-like  labors  the  tree. 

4 


50  A    SHADOW. 

Like  the  waters  flow 
Over  the  plain, 
The  waters  of  woe 
Sweep  over  my  brain, 
And  laboring  Love  reels  to  and  fro, 
Spurning  and  lashing  the  desolate  sea  ! 

The  flood  subsides,  the  river  glides 

In  silvery  sheen  right  joyously, 
The  conquering  tree  on  the  bright  plain  hides 
Its  limbs  in  greenest  livery. 
The  sea  of  woe 
Hath  left  my  brain, 
And  pleasures  flow 
In  their  channel  again  ; 
While  beautiful  Love  sways  to  and  fro, 
Bedecked  in  Hope's  bright  livery  ! 


51 


A  LEAF  FROM  THE  PAST. 


WITH  thee,  dear  friend,  though  far  away, 
I  walk,  as  on  some  vanished  day, 
And  all  the-past  returns  in  beautiful  array. 

With  thee  I  still  pace  to  and  fro 
Along  the  airy  portico, 
And  gaze  upon  the  flowers  and  river  winding  slow. 

And  there,  as  in  some  fairy  realm, 
I  hear  the  sweet  birds  overwhelm 
The  fainting  air  with  music  from  the  lofty  elm. 

And  hear  the  winged  winds,  like  bees, 
Go  swarming  in  the  tufted  trees, 
Or  dropping  low  way,  o'erweighed  with  melodies. 


52  A    LEAF    FROM    THE    PAST. 

We  walk  beneath  the  cedar's  eaves, 
Where  statued  Ceres,  with  her  sheaves, 
Stands  sheltered  in  a  bower  of  trailing  vines  and  leaves. 

Or  strolling  by  the  garden  fence, 
Drinking  delight  with  every  sense, 
We  watch  th'  encamping  sun  throw  up  his  golden  tents. 

With  thee  I  wander  as  of  old, 
When  fall  the  linden's  leaves  of  gold, 
Or  when  old  winter  whitely  mantles  all  the  wold. 

As  when  the  low  salt  marsh  was  mown, 
With  thee  I  idly  saunter  down 
Between  the  long  white  village  and  the  towered  town. 

I  see  the  sultry  bridge  and  long, 
The  river  where  the  barges  throng  — 
The  bridge  and  river  made  immortal  in  thy  song. 

In  dreams  like  these,  of  calm  delight, 
I  live  again  the  wintry  night, 
When  all  was  dark  without,  but  all  within  was  bright  — 


A   LEAF    FROM    THE    PAST.  53 

When  she,  fit  bride  for  such  as  thou, 
She  with  the  quiet,  queenly  brow, 
Read  from  the  minstrel's  page  with  tuneful  voice  and  low. 

Still  in  the  crowd  or  quiet  nook, 
I  hear  thy  tone  —  behold  thy  look  — 
Thou  speakest  with  thine  eyes  as  from  a  poet's  book. 

I  listen  to  thy  cheering  word, 
And  sadness,  like  the  affrighted  bird, 
Flies  fast,  and  flies  afar,  until  it  is  unheard. 


54 


WHY  NOT  WE. 


LOOK  how  the  blue-eyed  violets 
Glance  love  to  one  another ! 

Their  little  leaves  are  whispering 

The  vows  they  may  not  smother. 

The  birds  are  pouring  passion  forth, 
From  every  blossoming  tree  — 

If  flowers  and  birds  talk  love,  lady, 
Why  not  we  ? 

The  golden  —  flashing  meadow  grass 
With  vernal  feeling  thrills, 

And  rivulet  to  rivulet, 

Discourses  in  the  hills  ; 


WHY   NOT    WE.  55 


Along  the  dreamy  valleys  sigh 

The  rivers  to  the  sea  — 
They  murmur  their  pure  love,  lady, 
Why  not  we  ? 

And  over  all  the  happy  earth, 

Love  floweth  —  like  a  river  — 

True  love,  whose  glory  fills  the  sky 
Forever  and  forever. 

The  pale  hearts  of  the  silver  stars 
Throb,  too,  as  mine  to  thee.  — 

All  things  delight  in  love,  lady, 
Why  not  we  ? 


56 


ARISE. 


i. 
THE  shadow  of  the  midnight  hours 

Falls  like  a  mantle  round  my  form ; 
And  all  the  stars,  like  autumn  flowers, 

Are  banished  by  the  whirling  storm. 
The  demon-clouds  throughout  the  sky, 

Are  dancing  in  their  strange  delight, 
While  winds  unwearied  play;  —  but  I 

Am  weary  of  the  night. 
Then  rise,  sweet  maiden  mine,  arise, 
And  dawn  upon  me  with  thine  eyes. 

n. 
The  linden,  like  a  lover,  stands 

And  taps  against  thy  window  pane  ;  • 
The  willow  with  its  slender  hands, 

Is  harping  on  the  silver  rain. 


ARISE.  57 

I  've  watched  thy  gleaming  taper  die, 
And  hope  departed  with  the  light  — 

The  winds  unwearied  play  ;  —  but  I 
Am  weary  of  the  night. 

Then  rise,  sweet  maiden  mine,  arise, 

And  dawn  upon  me  ivith  thine  eyes. 

m. 

The  gentle  morning  comes  apace, 

And  smiling  bids  the  night  depart; 
Rise,  maiden,  with  thy  orient  face, 

And  smile  the  shadow  from  my  heart ! 
The  clouds  of  night  affrighted  fly  — 

Yet  darkness  seals  my  longing  sight  — 
All  nature  gladly  sings  —  while  I 

Am  weary  of  the  night. 
Then  rise,  sweet  maiden  mine,  arise, 
And  dawn  upon  me  with  thine  eyes. 


58 


THE  MAID  OF  THE  MORNING. 


I  HAVE  loved  a  gentle  maiden 

Long  and  well ; 
Of  her  many  radiant  beauties 

Who  may  tell  ? 

Freely  to  the  winds  she  giveth 

Golden  hair ; 
One  rare,  burning  jewel  gilds  her 

Forehead  fair. 

And  her  silky  robes  of  azure 

Glisten  bright  — 
Sometimes  on  her  breast  a  crescent 

Shineth  white. 


THE    MAID    OF    THE    MORNING.  59 

Early  at  my  open  casement 

She  is  beaming, 
Jealous  lest  that  of  some  other 

I  am  dreaming. 

Smiling  unto  me  she  cometh, 

Stealing  slow ; 
On  my  cheek  and  brow  I  feel  her 

Tresses  glow. 

Deep  into  my  eye  she  peereth 

To  the  brain, 
And  of  pleasant  golden  visions 

Wakes  a  train. 

When  to  mine  the  maiden  closely 

Rests  her  cheek, 
Thus  in  whispering  words  I  hear  her 

Chiding  speak  — 

"  Wherefore,  oh  thou  dreamy  poet, 

Sleep'st  thou  still  ? 
Thou  may'st  hear  the  big  wheel  turning 

At  the  mill  — 


60  THE    MAID    OF    THE    MORNING. 

"  Hear  the  pretty  milk-maid  singing 

With  her  pail ; 
And  from  yonder  barn  the  thunder 

Of  the  flail. 

"  Then  why  flows  thy  life-stream  idle 

'Neath  the  sun  ? 
Is  their  nothing  in  thy  store-house 

To  be  done  ? 

"  Start  the  wheel,  thou  drowsy  miller, 

Start  in  haste  ! 
Ere  thy  life's  uncertain  river 

Runs  to  waste. 

"  Like  the  threshers,  be  thy  labor 

Hard  and  long  ; 
Like  the  milk-maid  let  thy  glad  heart 

Gush  in  song." 

Thus  the  maiden  gently  chides  me, 

Whilst  her  eyes 
Speak  a  language  all  too  tender 

For  disguise. 


THE    MAID    OF    THE    MORNING.  61 

Therefore  flows  my  love  unto  her 

Like  a  river, 
And  I  '11  praise  the  Maid  of  Morning 

Now  and  ever. 


62 


THE  WINDY  NIGHT. 


ALOW  and  aloof, 

Over  the  roof, 
How  the  midnight  tempests  howl ! 

With  a  dreary  voice,  like  the  dismal  tune 
Of  wolves  that  bay  at  the  desert  moon  ;  — 

Or  whistle  and  shriek 

Through  limbs  that  creak, 

"Tu  — who!  tu  —  whit!" 

They  cry  and  flit, 
«  Tu  —  whit !  —  tu  who  !  "  like  the  solemn  owl ! 

Alow  and  aloof, 

Over  the  roof, 
Sweep  the  moaning  winds  amain, 

And  wildly  dash 

The  elm  and  ash, 
Clattering  on  the  window  sash ! 


THE    WINDY   NIGHT.  63 

With  a  clatter  and  patter, 
Like  hail  and  rain, 
That  well  nigh  shatter 
The  dusky  pane  ! 

Alow  and  aloof, 

Over  the  roof, 
How  the  tempests  swell  and  roar ! 

Though  no  foot  is  astir, 

Though  the  cat  and  the  cur 
Lie  dozing  along  the  kitchen  floor, 

There  are  feet  of  air 

On  every  stair  ! 

Through  every  hall  — 

Through  each  gusty  door, 
There  's  a  jostle  and  bustle, 
With  a  silken  rustle, 
Like  the  meeting  of  guests  at  a  festival  ! 

Alow  and  aloof, 
Over  the  roof, 
How  the  stormy  tempests  swell ! 


64  THE    WINDY    NIGHT. 

And  make  the  vane 

On  the  spire  complain  — 
They  heave  at  the  steeple  with  might  and  main  ; 

And  burst  and  sweep 
Into  the  belfry,  on  the  bell  ! 
They  smite  it  so  hard,  and  they  smite  it  so  well, 

That  the  sexton  tosses  his  arms  in  sleep, 
And  dreams  he  is  ringing  a  funeral  knell ! 


65 


"MOURN  NOT,   SAD  POET.' 


MOURN  not,  sad  poet,  but  right  gladly  sing, 
So  shall  thy  fortune  be  not  wholly  drear  ; 
Pour  forth  thy  spirit  like  a  rock-bound  spring, 
Which  o'er  its  barriers  sings  more  sweetly  clear. 
Pour  forth  thy  gladness  in  a  louder  shower, 
Because  thou  'rt  in  a  rocky  desert  placed, 
That  pilgrims,  feeling  thy  refreshing  power, 
Shall  speak  thy  praises  through  their  life-wide  waste. 
Pour  forth  thy  freshness,  and  though  far  and  wide 
No  blossoms  wave  to  cheer  the  barren  ground, 
Earth's  countless  flowers,  in  rarest  colors  dyed 
With  sweetest  moss,  shall  compass  thee  around. 
Then  sing  in  gladness,  and  thy  constant  lay 
Shall  wear  Misfortune's  hardest  rocks  away  ! 


66 


THE  WATER. 


THE  water  !  the  water !     The  dark  cloud  upsprings, 
And,  eagle-like,  scatters  the  spray  from  its  wings  ! 
The  water  !  the  water  !     Where  pastures  are  green, 
Where  forest  trees  grow  with  sweet  flowers  between  ; 
Where  sitteth  the  mountain,  so  sullen  and  proud, 
And,  sultan-like,  wears  for  its  turban  the  cloud  ; 
Where  springeth  a  shrub  —  where  a  leaflet  is  seen, 
Wherever  is  beauty,  the  water  hath  been. 
Throughout  the  dark  winter  you  hear  it  rejoice, 
As  it  glideth  away  with  its  ice-muffled  voice  ; 
Where  late  on  the  hill-side  the  loud  torrent  flowed, 
It  stands  in  the  night  like  a  ghost  by  the  road  ! 


THE    WATER.  67 

But  bounding  adown  in  the  light  of  the  sun, 

With  maniac  laughter  the  water  shall  run  ; 

Away,  and  away,  telling  loud  with  delight, 

The  pranks  that  it  played  through  the  long  winter  night ! 

But  dreadful  the  place  where  the  water  is  not  — 

The  camel  athirst  faints  away  on  the  spot  — 

The  pilgrim  starts  up,  with  his  blood-bursting  eyes, 

To  follow  the  counterfeit  lake  as  it  flies  ! 

O'er  terrible  sands  he  pursueth  it  far, 

Then  sink,  as  it  fades  like  a  meteor  star ! 

Like  Hagar,  he  sinks  in  his  burning  distress  — 

Send  thy  angel,  oh,  God,  to  the  wilderness ! 


68 


A   MORNING,  BUT  NO  SUN. 


THE  morning  comes,  but  brings  no  sun ; 
The  sky  with  storm  is  overrun ; 
And  here  I  sit  in  my  room  alone, 
And  feel,  as  I  hear  the  tempest  moan, 
Like  one  who  hath  lost  the  last  and  best, 
The  dearest  dweller  from  his  breast ! 
For  every  pleasant  sight  and  sound, 
The  sorrows  of  the  sky  have  drowned ; 
The  bell  within  the  neighboring  tower, 
Falls  blurred  and  distant  through  the  shower; 
Look  where  I  will,  hear  what  I  may, 
All,  all  the  world  seems  far  away  ! 
The  dreary  shutters  creak  and  swing, 
The  windy  willows  sway  and  fling 


A    MORNING,    BUT   NO    SUN.  69 

A  double  portion  of  the  rain 
Over  the  weeping  window  pane. 
But  I,  with  gusty  sorrow  swayed, 
Sit  hidden  here,  like  one  afraid, 
And  would  not  on  another  throw 
One  drop  of  all  this  weight  of  woe  ! 


70 


TO  WORDSWORTH. 


THY  rise  was  as  the  morning,  glorious,  bright ! 
And  error  vanished  like  the  affrighted  dark  ;  — 
While  many  a  soul,  as  the  aspiring  lark, 
Waked  by  thy  dawn,  soared  singing  to  the  light, 
Drowning  in  gladdest  song  the  earth's  despite  ! 
And  beauty  blossomed  in  all  lowly  nooks  — 
Love,  like  a  river  made  of  nameless  brooks, 
Grew  and  exulted  in  thy  wakening  sight ! 
All  nature  hailed  thee  as  a  risen  sun ; 
Nor  will  thy  setting  blur  her  thankful  eyes ! 
While  earth  remains  thy  day  shall  not  be  done, 
Nor  cloud  dispread  to  blot  thy  matchless  skies ! 
When  Death's  command,  like  Joshua's  shall  arise, 
Thou  'It  stand  as  stood  the  sun  of  Gibeon  ! 


71 


THE   SUMMER  SHOWER. 

BEFORE  the  stout  harvesters  falleth  the  grain, 
As  when  the  strong  storm-wind  is  reaping  the  plain  ; 
And  loiters  the  boy  in  the  briery  lane ; 
But  yonder  aslant  comes  the  silvery  rain, 
Like  a  long  line  of  spears  brightly  burnished  and  tall. 

Adown  the  white  highway,  like  cavalry  fleet, 
It  dashes  the  dust  with  its  numberless  feet. 
Like  a  murmurless  school,  in  their  leafy  retreat, 
The  wild  birds  sit  listening  the  drops  round  them  beat ; 
And  the  boy  crouches  close  to  the  blackberry  wall. 

The  swallows  alone  take  the  storm  on  their  wing, 
And,  taunting  the  tree-sheltered  laborers,  sing. 
Like  pebbles  the  rain  breaks  the  face  of  the  spring, 
While  a  bubble  darts  up  from  each  widening  ring ; 
And  the  boy,  in  dismay,  hears  the  loud  shower  fall. 


72  THE    SUMMER    SHOWER. 

But  soon  are  the  harvesters  tossing  the  sheaves ; 
The  robin  darts  out  from  its  bower  of  leaves  ; 
The  wren  peereth  forth  from  the  moss-covered  eaves  • 
And  the  rain-spattered  urchin  now  gladly  perceives 
That  the  beautiful  bow  bendeth  over  them  all. 


73 


LABOR. 


"  LABOR,  labor !  "  sounds  the  anvil 
"  Labor,  labor,  until  death !" 

And  the  file,  with  voice  discordant, 
"  Labor,  endless  labor !  "  saith. 

While  the  bellows  to  the  embers, 
Speaks  of  labor  in  each  breath. 


"  Labor,  labor  !"  in  the  harvest, 
Saith  the  whetting  of  the  scythe, 

And  the  mill-wheel  tells  of  labor 
Under  waters  falling  blithe  ; 

"  Labor,  labor !  "  groan  the  millstones, 
To  the  bands  that  whirl  and  writhe  ! 


74  LABOR. 

And  the  woodman  tells  of  labor, 
In  his  echo-waking  blows  ; 

In  the  forest,  in  the  cabin, 

'T  is  the  dearest  word  he  knows  ! 

"  Labor,  labor  !  "  saith  the  spirit, 
And  with  labor  comes  repose. 


"  Labor  !  "  saith  the  loaded  wagon, 
Moving  towards  the  distant  mart. 

"  Labor  !"  groans  the  heavy  steamer, 
As  she  cleaves  the  waves  apart. 

Beating  like  that  iron  engine, 
"  Labor,  labor  !"  cries  the  heart ! 


Yes,  the  heart  of  man  cries  "  labor !" 
While  it  labors  in  the  breast. 

Hear  the  Ancient  and  Eternal, 
In  the  Word  which  He  hath  blest, 

Saying,  "  Six  days  shalt  thou  labor, 
On  the  seventh  thou  shalt  rest !" 


LABOR. 

Then  how  beautiful  at  evening, 
When  the  toilsome  week  is  done, 

To  behold  the  blacksmith's  embers 

t 

Fade  together  with  the  sun  ; 
And  to  think  the  doors  of  labor 
Are  all  closing  up  like  one  ! 


75 


76 


SUNLIGHT  ON  THE  THRESHOLD. 


DEAR  Mary,  I  remember  yet 
The  day  when  first  we  rode  together, 

Through  groves  where  grew  the  violet, 
For  it  was  in  the  Maying  weather. 

And  I  remember  how  the  woods 

Were  thrilled  with  love's  delightful  chorus  ; 
How  in  the  scented  air  the  buds, 

Like  our  young  hearts,  were  swelling  o'er  us. 

The  little  birds,  in  tuneful  play, 

Along  the  fence  before  us  fluttered  ; 

The  robin  hopped  across  the  way, 

Then  turned  to  hear  the  words  we  uttered ! 


SUNLIGHT    ON    THE    THRESHOLD.  77 

We  stopped  beside  the  willow-brook, 
That  trickled  through  its  bed  of  rushes  ; 

While  timidly  the  reins  you  took, 
I  gathered  blooms  from  brier  bushes  ; 

And  one  I  placed,  with  fingers  meek, 

Within  your  little  airy  bonnet ; 
But  then  I  looked  and  saw  your  cheek  — 

Another  rose  was  blooming  on  it ! 

Some  miles  beyond  the  village  lay, 

Where  pleasures  were  in  wait  to  wreathe  us  ; 

While  swiftly  flew  the  hours  away, 
As  swiftly  flew  the  road  beneath  us. 

How  gladly  we  beheld  arise, 

Across  the  hill,  the  village  steeple ! 
Then  met  the  urchin's  wondering  eyes, 

And  gaze  of  window-peering  people ! 

The  dusty  coach  that  brought  the  mail, 

Before  the  office  door  was  standing  ; 
Beyond,  the  blacksmith,  gray  and  hale, 

With  burning  tire  the  wheel  was  banding. 


78  SUNLIGHT    ON    THE    THRESHOLD. 

We  passed  some  fruit-trees  —  after  these 
A  bedded  garden  lying  sunward  ; 

Then  saw,  beneath  three  aged  trees, 
The  parsonage  a  little  onward. 

A  modest  building,  somewhat  gray, 

Escaped  from  time,  from  storm,  disaster ; 

The  very  threshold  worn  away 

With  feet  of  those  who  'd  sought  the  pastor. 

And  standing  on  the  threshold  there, 
We  saw  a  child  of  angel  lightness, 

Her  soul-lit  face  —  her  form  of  air, 

Outshone  the  sunlight  with  their  brightness  ! 

As  then  she  stood  I  see  her  now  — 
In  years  perchance  a  half  a  dozen  — 

And,  Mary,  you  remember  how 

She  ran  to  you  and  called  you  "  cousin  ?  " 

As  then,  I  see  her  slender  size, 

Her  flowing  locks  upon  her  shoulder  — 

A  six  years'  loss  to  Paradise, 

And  ne'er  on  earth  the  child  grew  older ! 


SUNLIGHT    ON    THE    THRESHOLD.  79 

Three  times  the  flowers  have  dropped  away, 

Three  winters  glided  gaily  o'er  us, 
Since  here  upon  that  morn  in  May 

The  little  maiden  stood  before  us. 

These  are  the  elms,  and  this  the  door, 

With  trailing  woodbine  overshaded ; 
But  from  the  step,  forevermore, 

The  sunlight  of  that  child  has  faded  ! 


80 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 


OVER  the  hills  and  over  the  plains, 
Sweep  the  equinoctial  rains, 

Smiting  the  river,  beating  the  bay, 
Till  every  wave, 
Like  a  coward  slave, 
Sinks  in  a  sullen  hush  away  ! 
A  very  tyrant  is  the  rain  ; 
He  throweth  around  his  chilly  chain, 
He  barreth  the  rich  and  he  barreth  the  poor, 
While  his  sentinels  pace  at  every  door  ! 
But  what  care  I 
For  the  frowning  sky, 
Or  the  rain  who  forgeth  his  chain  so  cold  ! 
For  I  can  dream, 
And,  dreaming  deem 
His  fetters  are  only  as  fetters  of  gold ! 


THE    RAINY    DAY.  81 

Oh,  sweet  to  me  is  the  autumn  weather, 

When  the  rain  and  the  leaves  come  down  together  ; 

When  twilight  through  the  day  descends  ; 

When  rare  old  books 

From  shadowy  nooks 
Look  out  like  old  familiar  friends  ! 
'T  is  then  I  weave  my  idle  rhyme 
While  the  noisy  rain  without  beats  time. 
For  never  more  lovely  looked  river  and  plain, 
Than  now,  when  they  gleam  through  the  misty  pane  ! 

Then  what  care  I 

For  the  frowning  sky, 
Or  the  rain  who  forgeth  his  chain  so  cold ; 

For  I  can  dream, 

And,  dreaming,  deem 
His  fetters  are  only  as  fetters  of  gold ! 


82 


THE  SWISS   STREET    SINGER. 


THROW  up  the  glassy  casement  wide, 

And  fling  the  heavy  blinds  aside, 

To  let  the  sunshine  and  the  tide 

Of  music  through  the  chamber  glide. 

Oh,  list !  it  is  a  maiden  young, 

Who  singeth  in  a  foreign  tongue  ; 

She  poureth  songs  in  strangest  guise, 

In  words  translated  by  her  eyes. 

Come,  youth  and  childhood,  form  the  ring, 

And,  maidens,  from  the  window  lean, 

To  lid  the  exile  Switzer  sing, 

And  strike  the  trembling  tambourine  ! 


THE    SWISS    STREET    SINGER.  83 

The  glistening  azure  in  her  eye 

Hath  something  of  her  native  sky  ; 

The  music  of  the  rill  and  breeze 

Are  mingled  in  her  melodies  ; 

And  in  her  form's  tall  graceful  lines 

There  's  something  of  the  mountain  pines  ; 

And,  oh,  believe  her  soul  may  glow 

As  purely  as  the  Alpine  snow. 

Come,  youth  and  childhood,  form  the  ring, 

And,  maidens,  from  the  window  lean, 

To  bid  the  exile  Switzer  sing, 

And  strike  the  trembling  tambourine  ! 


Oh,  gaze  not  on  her  scornfully, 
For,  gentle  lady,  like  to  thee, 
That  wandering  maiden  well  may  be 
Acquaint  with  pain  and  misery,  — 
And  sad  remembrance  prompts  the  lay 
That  telleth  of  the  far  away  ; 
While  wildly  in  her  music  swell 
The  glory,  name,  arid  land  of  Tell ! 


84  THE  SWISS  STREET  SINGER. 

Then,  youth  and  childhood,  form  the  ring, 
And,  maidens,  from  the  window  lean, 
To  lid  the  exile  Switzer  sing, 
And  strike  the  trembling  tambourine  ! 


85 


THE  DEPARTURE. 


ALL  around  me  glows  the  harvest 
As  I  drop  below  the  town, 

And  the  pleasant  song  of  workmen 
On  the  breeze  is  floating  down. 

Far  away  the  slender  brooklet 

Gleams  upon  the  yellow  plain, 

Like  a  newly  sharpened  sickle 

Dropped  amid  the  golden  grain. 

By  the  town,  and  through  the  valleys, 
Sweeps  the  flashing  river  fast, 

Like  a  herald  to  the  future, 

With  a  summons  from  the  past. 


86  THE    DEPARTURE. 

Now  my  soul  hath  caught  the  music 
Of  the  pleasant  harvest  strain ; 

And  the  stream  of  gladness  flashes, 
Like  the  brooklet,  in  my  brain. 

And  responsive  to  the  river, 

How  my  spirit  sweeps  along, 

As  it  goes  to  meet  the  future, 

With  a  purpose  fixed  and  strong. 


8? 


THE  TWINS. 


FROM  a  beautiful  lake  in  the  mountain 

Two  rivulets  came  down, 
Prattling  awhile  to  the  violets 

'Mid  shadows  green  and  .brown. 

O'er  beds  of  golden  lustre, 

Around  by  rock  and  tree, 
They  sang  the  same  tune  with  their  silvery  tongues, 

And  clapped  their  hands  in  glee. 

O'er  rocks  with  mosses  mantled, 

They  eddied  and  whirled  like  a  waltzing  pair, 
Till,  hand  in  hand,  with  laughter  and  leap 

They  mingled  their  misty  hair. 


88  THE    TWINS. 

Over  the  self-same  ledges, 

Singing  the  self-same  tune, 
They  passed  from  April  to  breezy  May, 

Toward  the  fields  of  June. 

They  whirled  and  danced  and  dallied, 
And  through  the  meadows  slid, 

Till  under  the  same  thick  grass  and  flowers 
Their  further  course  was  hid  ! 

I  saw  two  beautiful  children, 

Of  one  fair  mother  born, 
Like  two  young  clouds  of  golden  hue 

That  smile  on  the  breast  of  morn. 

The  same  in  age  and  beauty, 

The  same  in  voice  and  size, 
The  same  bright  hair  upon  their  necks, 

The  same  shade  in  their  eyes ! 

Singing  the  same  song  ever 

In  the  self-same  silvery  tune, 
They  passed  from  April  into  May, 

Toward  the  fields  of  June  ! 


THE    TWINS. 

They  whirled  and  danced  and  dallied 

The  beautiful  vales  amid, 
Till  under  the  same  thick  leaves  and  flowers 

Their  future  course  was  hid  ! 


90 


EVENING. 


WHILE  the  fading  day,  yet  florid, 
Gilds  the  steeples  of  the  town, 

With  a  star  upon  her  forehead 

Comes  the  gentle  evening  down  ; 

And  a  gray  and  gause-like  mantle 

Melts  around  her  robes  of  brown. 

Sacred  rest  from  her  is  given, 

Rest  and  love  and  joy  complete  ; 

All  the  sweetest  birds  of  heaven 
Singing  drop  down  at  her  feet ; 

And  the  happy  rustic  maidens 

The  sweet  songs  of  peace  repeat. 


EVENING.  91 

Now  the  farmer  'mid  his  cattle 

Stands  the  conscious  lord  of  all ; 

And  the  horse,  like  one  from  battle, 
Hears  the  heavy  harness  fall, 

Turning  with  a  neigh  of  pleasure, 
Well  contented,  to  his  stall. 


Not  alone  o'er  hills  and  valleys 

Falls  the  star-light  of  her  mien  ; 

But  in  streets  and  dismal  alleys 
Is  her  holy  presence  seen, 

By  the  rich  and  by  the  beggar, 

And  the  crowd  who  walk  between. 


And  the  bard,  though  worn  and  weary, 

She  renews  with  strange  delight, 
Spreading  round  his  walls,  late  dreary, 
Fancies  beautiful  and  bright, 

Ere  comes  down,  like  Cleopatra, 

The  rare  jewelled  queen  of  Night. 


92  EVENING. 

Though  to  some  she  brings  no  gladness,  — 
While  she  tells  of  fearful  things ; 

What  though  misery  and  madness 
Still  inflict  their  savage  stings  ; 

Yet  thrice  blessed  be  the  Evening, 

That  some  peace  to  earth  she  brings. 


93 


AUTUMN'S   SIGHING. 


AUTUMN  's  sighing, 
Moaning,  dying; 
Clouds  are  flying 

On  like  steeds  ; 
While  their  shadows 
O'er  the  meadows, 
Walk  like  widows 

Decked  in  weeds. 

Red  leaves  trailing, 
Fall  unfailing, 
Dropping,  sailing 

From  the  wood, 
That,  unpliant, 
Stands  defiant, 
Like  a  giant 

Dropping  blood. 


94 


Winds  are  swelling 
Round  our  dwelling, 
All  day  telling 

Us  their  wo, 
And  at  vesper 
Frosts  grow  crisper, 
As  they  whisper 

Of  the  snow. 

From  th'  unseen  land 
Frozen  inland, 
Down  from  Greenland 

Winter  glides, 
Shedding  lightness, 
Like  the  brightness 
When  moon-whiteness 

Fills  the  tides. 

Now  bright  pleasure's 
Sparkling  measures 
With  rare  treasures 
Overflow  ! 


AUTUMN'S  SIGHING.  95 

With  this  gladness 
Comes  what  sadness ! 
Oh,  what  madness  ! 
Oh,  what  wo ! 

Even  merit 
May  inherit 
Some  bare  garret, 

Or  the  ground  ; 
Or,  a  worse  ill, 
Beg  a  morsel, 
At  some  door  sill, 

Like  a  hound ! 

Storms  are  trailing, 
Winds  are  wailing, 
Howling,  railing 

At  each  door. 
'Midst  this  trailing, 
Howling,  railing, 
List  the  wailing 

Of  the  poor ! 


96 


THE  LAND  OF  OBLIVION. 


A  DUSKY  king,  in  dusky  shadows  blent, 
Morosely  reigns  in  gloomy  realms  afar ; 
Above  him  hangs  an  ebon  firmament, 
With  here  and  there  a  star. 

A  sullen  sea  casts  down  its  laden  waves 
Along  the  dull  and  fast  encroaching  strand, 
Upheaving  lengthened  ridges  on  the  graves 
Of  nations,  with  the  sand. 

With  knitted  brows  the  king  sits  gazing  through 
The  melancholy  night,  that  thickly  blears 
Far  off  the  endless  phantom  retinue 
Of  fast  advancing  years. 


THE    LAND   OF    OBLIVION.  97 

The  flaming  sword  that  waved  o'er  Eden's  gate 
Illumes  the  farthest,  verge  of  his  retreat ; 
But  here  the  boundary  of  his  dark  estate 
Lies  even  at  our  feet. 

A  boundary  which  we  may  not  cross  and  live  ; 
A  shore  fast  crumbling  in  the  wave  that  rides 
Impetuous  in  our  path,  and  soon  must  give 
The  body  to  the  tides. 

And  now,  when  dark  December's  gathering  storm 
With  heavy  wing  o'ershadows  many  a  heart, 
Beside  us  the  old  year  with  white-robed  form 
Stands  waiting  to  depart. 


Weighed  down  as  with  a  ponderous  tale  of  woe, 

How  dim  his  eyes,  how  wan  his  cheeks  appear  ! 

Like  Denmark's  spectre  king,  with  motion  slow 

He  beckons  the  young  year. 


98 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 


IT  is  the  season  when  the  light  of  dreams 
Around  the  year  in  golden  glory  lies ;  — 
The  heavens  are  mistier  than  a  maiden's  eyes, 

Whose  soul  with  love's  perpetual  splendor  teems. 
Like  hidden  poets  lie  the  hazy  streams, 

O'erveiled  with  mysteries  of  their  own  romance, 

While  scarce  a  breath  disturbs  their  drowsy  trance. 
The  golden  leaf  which  down  the  soft  air  gleams, 

Glides,  wavers,  falls  and  skims  the  unruffled  lake. 
Here  the  frail  maples  and  the  faithful  firs 

By  twisted  vines  are  wed.     The  russet  brake 
Skirts  the  low  pool ;  and  starred  with  open  burs 
The  chestnut  stands — But  when  the  north-wind  stirs, 

How,  like  an  armed  host,  the  summoned  scene  shall 
wake  ! 


99 


THE    DISTANT  MART. 


THE  day  is  shut :  —  November's  night, 
On  Newark's  long  and  rolling  height 

Falls  suddenly  and  soon ;  — 
At  once  the  myriad  stars  disclose  ; 
And  in  the  east  a  glory  glows, 
Like  that  the  red  horizon  shows 

Above  the  moon ! 

But  o'er  the  western  mountain  tops 
The  moon,  in  new-born  beauty,  drops 

Her  pale  and  slender  ring ;  — 
Still,  like  a  phantom  rising  red 
O'er  haunted  valleys  of  the  dead, 
I  see  the  distant  east  dispread 

Its  fiery  wing ! 


100  THE    DISTANT    MART. 

I  know  by  thoughts,  which,  like  the  skies, 
Grow  darker  as  they  slowly  rise 

Above  my  burning  heart, 
It  is  the  light  the  peasant  views, 
Through  nightly  falling  frosts  and  dews, 
While  Fancy  paints  in  brighter  hues 

The  distant  mart. 

Through  shadowy  hills  and  meadows  brown, 
The  calm  Passaic  reaches  down 

Where  the  broad  waters  lie  ;  — 
From  hill-side  homes  what  visions  teem  ! 
The  fruitless  hope  —  ambitious  dream, 
Go  freighted  downward  with  the  stream, 

And  yonder  die ! 

And  youths  and  maids,  with  strange  desires, 
O'er  quiet  homes  and  village  spires 

Behold  the  radiance  grow  ; 
They  see  the  lighted  casements  fine  — 
The  crowded  halls  of  splendor  shine  — 
The  gleaming  jewels  and  the  wine, 

But  not  the  woe  ! 


THE    DISTANT    MART.  101 

Take  from  yon  flaunting  flame  the  ray 
Which  glows  on  heads  untimely  gray, 

On  blasted  heart  and  brain ! 
From  rooms  of  death  the  watchers'  lamp, 
From  homes  of  toil,  from  hovels  damp, 
And  dens  where  Shame  and  Crime  encamp 

With  Want  and  Pain  ! 

From  vain  bazaars,  from  gilded  halls, 
Where  every  misnamed  pleasure  palls, 

Remove  the  chandeliers ; 
Then  mark  the  scanty,  scattered  rays  ! 
And  think  amid  that  dwindled  blaze 
How  few  shall  walk  their  happy  ways, 

And  shed  no  tears  ! 

But  now,  when  fade  the  fevered  gleams, 
Some  trouble  melts  away  to  dreams, 

Some  pain  to  sweet  repose  ! 
And  as  the  midnight  shadows  sweep, 
Life's  noisy  torrent  drops  to  sleep, 
Its  unseen  current,  dark  and  deep, 

In  silence  flows ! 


102 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  LAST  HOUR. 

ALL,   IN    THEIH    LIFE-TIME,   CARVE    THEIR    OWN   SOUL'S   STATUE. 


THE  middle  chimes  of  night  were  dead ; 
The  Sculptor  pressed  his  sleepless  bed  ;  — 
His  silver  locks  were  long  and  thin, 
His  eyes  and  cheeks  were  fallen  in  ! 
And,  like  the  leaf  on  Autumn's  limb, 
The  fluttering  life  still  clung  to  him  ! 

While  gazing  on  the  shadowy  wall, 
He  heard  the  muffled  knocker  fall ; 
But,  e'er  an  answering  foot  could  stir, 
Passed  in  the  midnight  messenger ! 
Around  his  shining  shoulders  rolled 
The  long  and  gleaming  locks  of  gold  ; 
The  radiance  of  his  features  fell 
In  Beauty's  light  unspeakable  ! 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  LAST  HOUR.  103 

And,  like  the  matin  song  of  birds, 
Swelled  the  sweet  music  of  his  words  ! 
"  Arise  !    It  is  your  Monarch's  will, 
Ere  sounds  from  the  imperial  hill 

The  warder's  trumpet-blast, 
The  palace-portal  must  be  passed  ; 
And  't  is  the  hour  before  the  last ! 
Arise  !    and  be  the  veil  withdrawn, 
And  let  the  long-wrought  statue  dawn  ! 
For  it  must  be  as  morning,  bright ! 
The  stars  amid  the  fields  of  night 
Must  fade  before  its  purer  light ! 
The  unblemished  face,  the  spotless  limb, 
Must  shine  among  the  seraphim, 
Faultless  in  form,  in  nothing  dim, 
Or  else  it  may  not  come  to  Him ! " 

The  sculptor  rose  with  sinking  heart, 
And  slowly  passed  the  veil  apart ; 
And  stood,  with  downcast  look  entranced, 
The  while  the  messenger  advanced, 
And  thought  he  heard,  yet  knew  not  why, 
His  hopes,  like  boding  birds,  go  by  ! 


104  THE  SCULPTOR'S  LAST  HOUR. 

And  felt  his  heart  weigh  ceaselessly 
Down,  like  the  friendless  dead  at  sea  ! 
Oh,  for  one  breath  athwart  the  air 
To  break  the  stillness  of  despair  ! 
Oh,  for  one  word,  though  it  were  sent 
The  seal  of  blackest  banishment ! 
Welcome  alike,  though  it  were  given 
From  sulphurous  shades,  or  vales  of  heaven  ! 

Now  on  the  darkness  swelled  a  sigh  — 
The  sculptor  raised  his  languid  eye 
And  saw  the  radiant  stranger  stand, 
Hiding  his  sorrow  with  his  hand ! 
His  breast  a  billowy  motion  kept, 

And  ever,  with  its  fall  and  rise, 
The  stillness  of  the  air  was  swept 

With  a  long  wave  of  sighs ! 
Then  grew  the  old  man's  asking  eyes 
Still  larger  with  their  blank  surprise, 

With  wonder  why  he  wept ! 
And  while  his  eyes  and  wonder  grew  — 
Came,  with  the  tears  which  gushed  anews 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  LAST  HOUR.  105 

The  music  of  the  stranger's  tongue  ; 
But  broken,  like  a  swollen  rill, 
That  heaves  along  its  native  hill, 

Sobbing  where  late  it  sung  ! 
"  Is  this  the  statue,  fair  and  white, 

A  long,  laborious  life  hath  wrought  ? 

And  which  our  generous  Prince  hath  bought  ? 
Is  this,  (so  soulless,  soiled,  and  dull,) 

To  pass  the  gates  of  light 
And  stand  among  the  beautiful  ? 
The  lines  which  seam  the  front  and  cheek 
Too  well  unholy  lusts  bespeak  ! 
The  brow  by  Anger's  hand  is  weighed, 
And  Malice  there  his  scar  hath  made ; 
Here  Scorn  hath  set  her  seal  secure, 
And  curled  the  lip  against  the  poor  ! 
And  Hate  hath  fixed  the  steady  glance 
Which  Jealousy  hath  turned  askance ! 
While  Thoughts,  of  these  dark  parents  born, 
Innumerable,  from  night  till  morn, 
And  mom  till  night,  have  wrought  their  wilL^ 
Like  storms  upon  a  barren  hill !      y?;  *f 


106  THE  SCULPTOR'S  LAST  HOUR. 

Old  man,  what  though  thy  locks  be  gray, 
And  Life's  last  hour  is  on  its  way, — 
What  though  thy  limbs  with  palsy  quake, 
The  hands,  like  Autumn  branches,  shake  ! 
Ere  from  your  rampart  high  and  round 
The  watchful  warder's  blast  shall  sound, 
Let  this  be  changed  while  yet  it  may  ! 
Your  Monarch  brooks  no  vain  delay  !  " 
The  stranger  spake  and  turned  away. 

A  moment  stood  the  aged  man 
With  lips  apart  and  look  aghast, 
Still  gazing  where  the  stranger  passed  ! 
And  now  a  shudder  o'er  him  ran 
As  chill  November's  breezes  sweep 
Across  the  dying  meadow  grass  ! 
His  tongue  was  dry,  he  could  not  speak  ! 
His  eyes  were  like  the  heated  glass  ! 
But,  when  the  tears  began  to  creep 
Adown  the  channels  of  his  cheek,  — 
A  long  and  shadowy  train, 
Born  of  his  sorrowing  brain, 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  LAST  HOUR.  107 

With  shining  feet  and  noiseless  tread, 
By  dewy-eyed  Repentance  led, 

Around  the  statue  pressed  ! 
With  eager  hand  and  swelling  breast, 
Hope,  jubilant,  the  chisel  seized 

And  heavenward  turned  the  eye  ! 
Forgiveness,  radiant  and  pleased, 
The  ridges  of  the  brow  released  ; 

While,  with  a  tear  and  sigh, 
Sweet  Charity  the  scorn  effaced  ; 

And  Mercy,  mild  and  fair, 
Upon  the  lips  her  chisel  placed, 

And  left  her  signet  there  ! 
And  Love,  the  earliest  born  of  heaven, 

O'er  all  the  features  glowing  ran  ! 
While  Peace,  the  best  and  latest  given, 

Finished  what  Hope  began! 

One  minute  now  before  the  last, 

The  stately  stranger  came  ; 
One  smile  upon  the  statue  cast, 
Then  to  the  fainting  sculptor  passed, 


108  THE  SCULPTOR'S  LAST  HOUR. 

And  spake  his  errand  and  his  name  ! 
And  on  the  old  man's  latest  breath 
Swelled  a  sweet  whisper,  "Welcome,  Death  !  " 
Afar  from  the  imperial  height 

Sounded  the  warder's  horn  ! 
Upward,  by  singing  angels  borne, 
The  statue  passed  the  gates  of  light, 
Outshining  all  the  stars  of  night, 

And  fairer  than  the  morn. 


109 


A  DIRGE  FOR  A  DEAD  BIRD. 

"  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever."  —  Keats. 


THE  cage  hangs  at  the  window, 
There  's  the  sunshine  on  the  sill ; 

But  where  's  the  form  and  where  's  the  voice 
That  ne'er  till  now  were  still  ? 

The  sweet  voice  hath  departed 
From  its  feathery  home  of  gold, 

The  little  form  of  yellow  dust 
Lies  motionless  and  cold  ! 

Oh,  where  amid  the  azure 

Hath  thy  sweet  spirit  fled  ? 
I  hold  my  breath  and  think  I  hear 

Its  music  overhead. 


110  A   DIRGE    FOR   A   DEAD    BIRD. 

Death  has  not  hushed  thy  spirit, 
Its  joy  shall  vanish  never ; 

The  slightest  thrill  of  pleasure  born 
Lives  on  and  lives  forever ! 

Throughout  the  gloomy  winter 
Thy  soul  shed  joy  in  ours, 

As  it  told  us  of  the  summer-time 
Amid  the  land  of  flowers. 

But  now  thy  songs  are  silent, 
Except  what  memory  brings ; 

For  thou  hast  folded  death  within 
The  glory  of  thy  wings  ! 

And  here  thy  resting  place  shall  be 
Beneath  the  garden  bower  ; 

A  bush  shall  be  thy  monument, 
Thy  epitaph  a  flower  ! 


Ill 


BELLS. 


ATHWART  the  quiet  morning  air 

The  bells  toll  out  their  solemn  chime, 

Whose  sounds  come  laden  as  they  were 
Dropt  from  the  lips  of  Time ; 

Or  pilgrim-like,  they  gently  cast 
Aside  the  sad  heart's  noiseless  door, 

And  enter,  weary  from  the  past, 
And  eloquent  in  lore. 

They  tell  me  of  the  days  of  old, 

Of  warfare  —  death  —  the  marriage  vow  ; 

They  speak  of  whatsoe'er  has  held 
The  peasant  from  the  plough. 


112  BELLS. 

The  sound  recalls  the  castled  Rhine, 
Its  convent-crags,  and  sadly  tells 

Of  those  two  lovers  doomed  to  pine 
Beneath  stern  Drachenfels  ! 

Of  cloudy  Marksburg,  old  and  brave  ; 

And  Rheinfels'  grey  dismantled  halls  ;  — 
The  Pfalz,  whose  prisoners  heard  the  wave 

Break  on  their  dungeon  walls  ! 

It  tells  the  welcome  chime  that  cheers 
The  marches  of  the  city  guard  ; 

Of  sounds  the  storm-worn  traveller  hears 
'Mid  hills  of  Saint  Bernard  ! 

And  of  the  wild  alarum  dread 

Which  knelled  the  invader's  sinking  fame, 
When  Moscow's  sons,  departing,  spread 

The  sacrificial  flame  ! 

It  brings,  as  with  a  magic  wand, 
That  simple  chapel  and  its  bell 

That  show  the  traveller,  Switzerland, 
The  greatness  of  thy  Tell ! 


BELLS.  113 

But  most  the  glorious  sound  reveals 
The  clangor  of  the  bell  which  broke 

The  sky  with  Declaration  peals, 
When  Liberty  awoke ! 

Anon,  when  Truth's  triumphal  car 
Shall  mount  regardless  of  the  Past, 

From  useless  implements  of  war 
A  mightier  shall  be  cast ! 

And  worthier  far  a  nation's  pride 

The  toll  upon  the  blessed  air, 
Which,  swelling  long  and  loud  and  wide, 

Shall  endless  peace  declare  ! 


114 


COME  THOU,  MY  BRIDE. 


COME  thou,  like  morning,  gentle  bride, 
In  thy  own  glory  beautified, 
Floweret-cheeked  and  dewy-eyed. 

So,  dearest,  when  thy  dawn  I  mark, 
Uprising  from  the  lingering  dark, 
My  soul  shall  greet  thee  like  the  lark. 

Come  with  thy  love's  exhaustless  measure, 
Look  down  and  fill  my  soul  with  pleasure, 
As  streams  are  filled  with  noon-day  azure. 

Then,  as  the  spirit-mists  arise 

To  the  embraces  of  the  skies, 

My  love  shall  greet  thine  asking  eyes. 


COME    THOU,    MY    BRIDE.  115 

Or  meet  me  with  a  milder  light ; 
Come,  like  that  halo,  starry-bright, 
Which  forever  clasps  the  Night. 

Let  Fortune  frown,  or  skies  be  drear, 

Do  thou  but  as  thyself  appear, 

A  cloudless  heaven  shall  still  be  here  ! 


116 


A  HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT. 


OH  Night !  most  beautiful,  most  rare  ! 

Thou  giv'st  the  heavens  their  holiest  hue  ! 
And  through  the  azure  fields  of  air 

Bringest  down  the  gentle  dew  ! 

Most  glorious  occupant  of  heaven, 
And  fairest  of  the  Earth  and  sea  ! 

The  wonders  of  the  sky  are  given, 
Imperial  Night,  to  thee  ! 

For  thou,  with  breathless  lips  apart, 
Didst  stand,  in  that  dim  age  afar, 

And  hold  upon  thy  trembling  heart 
Messiah's  herald- star ! 


A    HYMN    TO    THE    NIGHT.  117 

In  Olivet  thou  heard'st  Him  pray, 

And  wept  thy  dews  in  softer  light, 
And  kissed  His  sacred  tears  away  ! 

Thrice  blessed,  loving  Night ! 

And  thou  didst  overweigh  with  sleep 

The  watchers  at  the  sepulchre  ; 
And  heard'st  the  asking  Mary  weep  — 

Till  Jesus  answered  her. 

For  this  I  love  thy  hallowed  reign  ! 

For  more  than  this  thrice  blest  thou  art ! 
Thou  gain'st  the  unbeliever's  brain 

By  entering  at  his  heart ! 

Oh  Night !  most  regal !  most  divine  ! 

Thou  lift'st  the  spirit  from  the  dust ! 
God's  best  and  brightest  gifts  are  thine, 

All  thine,  and  it  is  just ! 


118 


WINTER. 


SAD  soul  —  dear  heart,  why,  why  repine  ? 

The  melancholy  tale  is  plain  — 
The  leaves  of  Spring,  the  Summer  flowers, 

Have  bloomed  and  died  again  ! 

The  sweet,  the  silver-sandaled  Dew, 
Which  like  a  maiden  fed  the  flowers, 

Hath  waxed  into  the  beldame  Frost, 
And  walked  amid  our  bowers ! 

Some  buds  there  were  —  sad  hearts  be  still ! 

Which  looked  awhile  unto  the  sky, 
Then  breathed  but  once  or  twice,  to  tell 

How  sweetest  things  may  die ! 


WINTER.  119 

And  some  must  blast  where  many  bloom  ;  — 
But,  blast  or  bloom,  the  fruit  must  fall ! 

Why  sigh  for  Spring  or  Summer  gems, 
Since  winter  gathers  all  ? 

He  gathers  all,  but  chide  him  not,  — 

What  though  his  breast  and  hands  are  cold, 

He  folds  them  close  as  best  he  can, 
For  he  is  blind  and  old. 

Oh,  chide  him  not !  hear  how  he  groans, 
While  frozen  tears  begem  his  face  ;  — 

Through  fields  and  woods  he  stumbles  on, 
The  last  of  all  his  race. 

See  how  he  totters  down  the  road,  — 

And  now  he 's  at  yon  cabin  door, 
And  he  has  summoned  from  the  hearth 

The  widow  old  and  poor. 

He  points  her  to  the  distant  grove,  — 
lie  plucks  her  by  the  tattered  gown  ; 

And  now  he  leads  her  through  the  woods, 
And  shakes  the  branches  down. 


120  WINTER. 

See  how  he  wanders  up  the  hill 

Before  the  morning  is  astir, 
And  stoops  with  trembling  hands  to  wrap 

The  frozen  traveller  ! 

Oh  chide  him  not,  the  poor  old  man  ! 

He  works  some  kindness  in  his  rounds  ! 
Nor  leave  him  in  the  foulest  nights 

To  kennel  with  the  hounds  ! 

But  when  he 's  standing  at  the  gate, 

Or  at  the  portal  makes  a  din, 
Throw  wood  upon  the  crackling  fire, 

And  let  the  old  man  in. 

And  seat  him  at  the  chimney  side, 
And  let  your  looks  with  love  abound  ; 

Then  tell  the  tale  and  sing  the  song, 
And  let  the  nuts  go  round. 

Then  shall  you  see  his  frowns  dispelled, 
And  pleasure  smile  where  all  was  drear ; 

And  when  his  griefs  are  quite  dissolved 
The  flowers  again  appear  ! 


WINTER.  121 

Sad  soul  —  dear  heart  —  why,  why  repine  ? 

The  tale  is  beautiful  and  plain  — 
Surely  as  Winter  taketh  all, 

The  Spring  shall  bring  again  ! 


122 


THE  BARDS. 


WHEN  the  sweet  day  in  silence  hath  departed, 

And  twilight  comes  with  dewy,  downcast  eyes, 
The  glowing  spirits  of  the  mighty-hearted 
Like  stars  around  me  rise.  — 

Spirits  whose  voices  pour  an  endless  measure, 

Exhaustless  as  the  founts  of  glory  are  ; 
Until  my  trembling  soul,  o'erswept  with  pleasure, 
Throbs  like  a  flooded  star. 

Old  Homer's  song,  in  mighty  undulations, 

Comes  surging,  ceaseless,  up  the  oblivious  main  ;  - 
I  hear  the  rivers  from  succeeding  nations 
Go  answering  down  again  :  — 

Hear  Virgil's  stream  in  changeful  currents  strolling, 

And  Tasso's  sweeping  round  through  Palestine  ; 
And  Dante's  deep  and  solemn  river  rolling 
Through  groves  of  midnight  pine. 


THE    BARDS.  123 

I  hear  the  iron  Norseman's  numbers  ringing 

Through  frozen  Norway,  like  a  herald's  horn  ; 
And  like  a  lark,  hear  glorious  Chaucer  singing 
Away  in  England's  morn. 

In  Rhenish  halls  I  hear  the  pilgrim  lover 

Weave  his  wild  story  to  the  wailing  strings, 
Till  the  young  maiden's  eyes  are  brimming  over, 
Like  the  sweet  cup  she  brings. 

And  hear  from  Scottish  hills  the  souls  unquiet, 

Pouring  in  torrents  their  perpetual  lays, 
As  their  impetuous  mountain  runnels  riot 
In  the  long  rainy  days  :  — 

The  world-wide  Shakspeare  —  the  imperial  Spenser, 
Whose  shafts  of  song  o'ertop  the  angels'  seats  ;  — 
While  delicate,  as  from  a  silver  censer, 
Float  the  sweet  dreams  of  Keats  ! 

Nor  these  alone  ;  for,  through  the  growing  present, 

Westward  the  starry  path  of  Poesy  lies  — 
Her  glorious  spirit,  like  the  evening  crescent, 
Comes  rounding  up  the  skies. 


124  THE    BARDS. 

I  see  the  beauty  which  her  light  impartest ! 

I  hear  the  masters  of  our  native  song! 
The  gentle-hearted  Allston,  poet-artist ! 
And  Dana  wild  and  strong ! 

And  he,  whose  soul  like  angel-harps  combining 

Anthemed  the  solemn  "Voices  of  the  Night"  ! 
I  see  fair  Zophiel's  radiant  spirit  shining, 
Pale  intellectual  light ! 

And  Bryant,  in  his  own  broad  kingdom  mildly 

Walking  by  streams,  through  woods  and  summer 

fields  ; 

And  iron-handed  Whittier,  when  he  wildly 
The  fiery  falchion  wields  ! 

These  are  the  Bards  who,  like  our  forests,  tower, 

Firm  in  their  strength  as  are  the  mountain  trees ! 
I  were  content  could  I  but  be  a  flower 
Up  at  the  feet  of  these  ! 


